nevermore

I bonded with a girl at work over the Twilight books. Yes, I read them, and though I think they were poorly written, I had enough material to converse pleasantly about them. Then this co-worker asked me to read Evermore. She had just finished and hated it. With a recommendation like that...

Evermore wants to be Twilight. It really, really, falls short. I know: that's saying something.

Two-second plot recaps: Twilight is about a girl Bella falling in love with vampire Edward, who can’t at first decide what he wants more, her heart or her blood; Evermore is about a girl Ever who since the death of her family has psychic gifts and falls in love with the hot immortal who has been in love with her every incarnation for 600 years.

The heroes: First, there is Edward, a one-hundred-year-old vampire who has dedicated his existence to rising above his, shall we say, “natural vampire.” He is perfectly beautiful, a side-effect of his transformation, the better to lure you with, my dear. His black eyes and unsociable disposition give him a mysterious air, a rather brooding melancholy reminiscent of Byronic heroes. Given the contemporary setting, his passion is a little too Rochester for my taste. I wonder if his name is a throwback to that very character.

Edward can read minds. He is also a little creepy with his attentions. Overprotective, might be the right word. Possessive and obsessive might be others. All the same, he seems to genuinely love our heroine Bella for virtues we’ll later address, and takes care to preserve and extol said virtues. And he drives very fast, which is not as daredevil as it sounds, given his ridiculously fast reflexes.

Then there is Damen, a six-hundred-year-old immortal, who is also perfectly beautiful with dark hair and black eyes, though this is just crazy random happenstance that someone gorgeous gets to live forever, while the plain boys die off. He, too, can read minds. Unlike Edward, Damen can read the mind of the girl he loves, and he uses it against her. Quite often, attacking the vulnerabilities she cannot hide from him. He toys with her constantly, flirting with other girls, just to read her reactions and see if she has feelings for him. Can I just say, Edward would never do that.

If Edward is Rochester, then Damen is Heathcliff, far more violent and hedonistic than Edward, despite the latter’s blood-drinking. Damen has spent his life in immediate gratification, sexing up over the centuries. Like Edward, Damen visits his girl’s room at night to watch her sleep. He also never tells her where he lives or lets her have his phone number. His mystery is much more mind-your-own-damn-business while Edward is just trying to keep stakes from his family’s respective hearts (not that that or sun will kill them.) And Damen also drives fast, way too fast given that he does not have supernatural reactions. (Driving fast is not always attractive: some of us prefer men who use cruise control to stay at the speed limit. )

Is it obvious yet that I thought Damen to be the least deserving of perhaps any love-story hero? While I want to show that he has many traits in common with Edward, such as the eternal life thing, I must underline that he is manipulative and dangerous, which is not romantic. The number of times he makes out with Ever and then splits, or tries to get her into bed before she protests too strongly, is enough for me to want to punch him in the face. Edward might be a monster, but at least he doesn’t act like one.

The heroines: Both books are told as first-person accounts from the heroine’s perspective. Thus, a lot of what I think about the characters comes from their narrative skills, not just their self-portrayals.

Bella. I like Bella. She is beautiful and funny and smart and selfless, and she never once had to say so. She, in fact, views herself as being rather ordinary. However, the number of guys who crush on her speaks something to her appeal. I found myself laughing aloud at her sarcastic comments in the narration and to Edward. And, as for smart, she figured out Edward’s secret without psychic powers.

Bella is clumsy, which irks me. Clumsiness is the new fainting, when it comes to femininity in stories. It keeps the women physically inferior and helpless, while conceding to emotional strength. Not that Bella doesn’t faint whenever Edward kisses her.

Yes, her love for Edward is silly and oh-so-very seventeen, and very much based on the fact that she wants his venom-sculpted body. While I infinitely prefer Edward to Damen, I cannot understand why Bella fell in love with Edward; there was simply no basis provided to explain it. And she does get a little needy and redundantly emo about it.

Ever. To start, what a stupid name. Ever is beautiful. She says so. Often. And did I call Bella emo? Did I dare think Bella needy? Compared to Ever, Bella is refreshingly grounded and rational. Oh. My. Gosh. The whininess and clinginess of Ever. The Queen of indecisiveness and self-pity. She doesn’t pay attention to anyone’s needs but her own, dismissing fatal threats to her friend in order to alleviate a headache, and even then, she’d rather wallow than help herself. Funny? No. Smart? Umm, she’s psychic, has a dead little sister who can spy for her and still doesn’t figure out Damen’s secret. That’s with his wife of 600 years hanging around giving hints. How thick can you be? While I can’t see why Bella fell for Edward at first, I can’t see at all why Damen keeps hunting down Ever’s incarnations. Though he did say she’s always beautiful. She said so.

I know, I know, this is getting very long-winded. And I haven’t addressed the events of the books. I’ll try to be brief.

I have said that Twilight had no plot, that it was all exposition until the last few pages, when suddenly an unforeseen threat emerges, makes a ruckus and is quickly vanquished. I have to hand it to Evermore, it certainly had more rising action (and I do not just mean Damen). The threat in this case, immortal Drina (compared to Twilight’s vampire James), is in the book the entire time, seen as a competitive threat, stealing the affections of both Damen and Haven (Ever’s bff). But at the end, when she suddenly tries to kill Ever, again, having done away with every previous incarnation, I again have to ask myself, why the exposition? Why did she try so hard to brainwash Haven when she could have walked up to Ever at any time and shanked her?

And then! did I call Twilight’s climax lame? Ever leaves the face-off with Drina midway through to have another exposition chapter in which Damen describes the rules of immortality to her. It’s very much like the chapter in Twilight in which the two ensconce themselves in an out-of-the-way field to discuss the repercussions of their romance. Only, in Evermore, the field is in a different dimension. Seriously.

The second fight with Drina is just as random. Not only does Drina wait a few months before trying again, courteously giving Ever time to sort out her feelings about being immortal, but she is then killed by Ever touching her chest, because (get this) there was no love in her heart. What the hell? Even if Twilight’s conflict came out of nowhere, at least the fight was interesting and the villain died the good ol' fashioned way--being ripped to pieces and tossed onto a bonfire.

And don’t get me started on Evermore’s Disneyland scene. Yes, in real life, Disneyland is a point unto itself, but in a novel it needs to have reason for being. It was so…so…. when Avril bakes the cake.

The best parts of both books are the supporting characters. I would read Twilight again just for Alice, let alone Carlisle, Emmett and Charlie. And while no coercion on earth could make me read Evermore for one more second, I did enjoy her dead little sister, who liked to spy on celebrities and materialize in Halloween costumes.

In the end, the best thing about Evermore was that it gave me greater appreciation for Twilight.

clue

Maybe it's backward thinking to use a dinner party for revenge, if revenge is the right word. Perhaps "passive-aggressive resistance through an active display of indifferent submissiveness." Yes, that's more accurate. It's like when roommates get fed up with your dirty dishes and clean the kitchen out of spite. They might bang the pots around in the sink, but the chore gets done. That's how I'm feeling, like I can't stand the (figurative) sight of dirty dishes one more second. So I'm throwing a dinner party. It reminds me of Clue, though less macabre. But with plenty of red herrings.

wicked

Too many people have too few perfect nights. Last Wednesday was one for me. The whole night was enchanted. Kevin took me to see Wicked. I have wanted to see that musical for four years now, ever since Tarythe introduced me to the soundtrack.

For starters, there was the boy. If I could have picked anyone in the world to take me out, I would have chosen him. I couldn't design a better match for me if I tried. I might have accidentally left out the part where he would carry an umbrella over my head while we walked past a fountain. And then put him in a suit with a blue dress shirt! I could hardly stop myself from swooning.

Secondly, I wore the dress of all dresses. I did design a perfect dress, exchanging emails with Mom in the hopes of constructing it. Then we found it at Nordstroms in all its Audrey-fitting glory. I felt radiant, like an internal spotlight were shining from me and on me. I brimmed with good will and innocuous vanity.

And then there was the play itself, everything I had hoped for and more. The music was richer, the dialogue funnier and the pathos fuller than I dreamed it would be. I intermittently clapped and laughed, leaned forward eagerly in my seat, leaped from it during applause, wept during For Good and squeezed Kevin's arm in delight. The best part was, not just the play, but seeing it after desiring to for so long. It was a dream come true. And happy is what happens when all your dreams come true.

When Kevin and I meandered back to his car along a dark and deserted path, past several ancient and twisted trees, I felt utterly and perfectly happy.

sleeping on the couch

Ted and I were having a perfectly lovely conversation, when he inserted his usual: "So, are you flying out here this weekend?" Never mind that the last time I flew out there for a weekend he stood me up. I told him he would have to wait two months. My plans are to fly to Utah at the end of October. "Still?" he asked. "Because if I have to wait for Kevin to propose before you fly out here, I may never see you." He wasn't just being his usual jocular jackass self. He had an I'm-saying-this-because-I-love-you undertone. And that really annoyed me. More than annoyed, actually, it hurt me.

Over Thanksgiving weekend 2007, Kevin told me that he wants to marry me. And I have been acting since that time on the assumption that he means it. I dropped a minor to graduate earlier and then moved a third of the way across the country, again, to be near him. And I have not cut and run despite the rejection I feel every time he says "I don't know" when I broach the subject of marriage. I have put up with thoughtless comments from nosey people about our relationship, which is none of their business, and I confidently picked out a ring and (less confidently) emailed the picture to Kevin. I have asked my family about their vacation plans and work schedules. I have met with the VP at work to arrange to take time off this fall. And even though Kevin said in June that I might need to sign a new lease, as getting married by August wasn't feasible, I managed to stall. I have put my stuff in storage, moved my books to Kevin's apartment with my TV, and taken up residence on Audrei's couch.

In every way that I can possibly conceive, I have acted on the assumption that Kevin will propose.

And Ted is not the only one who does not believe that he will.

I got it from Mom that same night, a mere half hour after Ted's phone call. Where I had been silently wounded with Ted, I grew vocal and angry with my mom. "I know it frustrates you not to know my plans. But I do not have an answer for you. I. Don't. Know. I didn't tell you to reserve a date, so just make your vacation plans! Why ask me?" That was not enough for her. She wanted to know how long she had to make a wedding dress. A wedding dress that I have told her I will not be wearing, as Kevin and I aren't interested in having a reception. I'd look silly hanging out at family dinner in a wedding dress. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

Am I sure that's what I want? How to answer that?

I hate wedding receptions. They're wasteful, of both time and money. The expectations of wedding receptions would put me in the poor house, if I could escape the loony bin after my brain rotted out from planning color schemes and finger foods. Receptions are flagrant displays of materialism. Not to mention boring. Merciful heavens, are they boring! I picture, instead, a family party with lots of simple food and lots of talking. I want to hang out with my friends and see if Ted or April will bust out a guitar. I want to play Carcassonne and carry my nephew around. A wedding dress doesn't fit in that scenario. I'm the girl who wants to go hiking for her honeymoon. I like things down to earth.

But sometimes...when I begin to feel like I'm on the clearance rack and my price tag has been slashed through with a red pen again and still no one is buying, then I get angry. When I talk about eloping even though I have no ring, I begin to see the merit in a real wedding reception. Those are the time when I crave a wedding gown and a diamond engagement ring, when my own tastes become secondary to the price I hope to exact on my behalf. I want my pound of flesh, my eight cows, my seven years' labor.

But, no, I don't really want a wedding dress.

I just want Kevin to propose, to act, like I have done, on the assumption that he wants to marry me.

Because sometimes, every so often, I think as Ted does, and I wonder what I'm doing on this couch, why I have no books, no home, no plans. My living situation has become a very visible and apt metaphor for my internal limbo, and I know that I can't stay on the couch forever.

in layman's terms

I am reading a great book right now, wherein one character describes human interactions in math terms, "absolute value" being the one I remember best right now. This character is usually rather flippant, so when his companion stopped for a beat after this explanation, I expected her to respond about the unusual depth and understanding he showed. Instead, she was completely confused by the terms and application. I laughed at myself when I realized my misunderstanding. That passage was intended to be confusing! But then again, I think of life through economics vocabulary. Nora knows that my favorite phrase is "sunk costs are irrelevant." To me, it is a moral about foresight, against grudge-bearing, and in favor of change, among many others. So even if I am a little bit off from the average layman, I at least have sympathy with a flippant god of bravery. I like the book better now.

true dreams

My dreams are true in a sense that I am manifesting real anxiety. The embodiment happens to be a little twisted. My fear of powerlessness comes in the form of water in dreams. It is often rising or pouring in through cracks, and I know that eventually it will overwhelm me. But while the symbols are manifestations of ubiquitous fears, the structure of the dreams, the plot, do not mean anything, they are the product of my mind's attempt to make sense of random stimuli.

Sometimes I have true dreams, in that when I wake up I think, Ah! That meant something! I remember these in perfect detail for years. And I always know exactly what they mean.

Like the one about the fruit trees outside of my McKinney home. I still vividly recall that dream. There are three others that I recall as clearly, but have no desire to recount in detail. And I had two in the past seven days.

The first was a Co-op version of the Most Dangerous Game, struggles with coworkers and jungle-set fights to the death. Later, trapped in an elevator that was part of an elaborate death trap, I discovered that the Co-op president was orchestrating all of these death matches, and the only way to appease him and get out of the elevator was to offer him a sacrifice of chocolate. I refused to do so, and instead prostrated myself before him in mocking obeisance. I scorned him and antagonized him, all the while knowing that my death was in his hands.

When I got to work the next morning, the mood was tense. Each member of the staff was trying to blame another for a failure on the sales floor that the Co-op president had noticed. He didn't care that it was rectified, he wanted someone to pay for it, and so pitted the entire staff against each other. No, I'm not prescient: this happens a lot. And I have no respect for the president who divides the company so severely, causing nothing but inefficiency and poor communication. I don't play his games. I wonder how long I'll last.

And then last night I had this dream:

I was part of a group mountain climbing, anchored by ropes, using pickaxes for gripping. The purpose was not recreation; I was being pursued and trying to escape with my life. Many people died. Dad was in the rear, struggling through deep snow. Some had left the path, building caves in the ice for shelter against the storm. And I lit a cigarette, responding to intimated criticism by explaining, "death does this to me."

It was when I lit the cigarette that I began to notice the oddity in my situation. What I am about to describe, I had seen through the entire dream, but I had never doubted the occurrences of the dream were real. The cigarette I "smoked" was a yellow colored pencil held loosely between my lips. The pickax a combination back-scratcher and shoe horn. The rope anchors, neck ties. The ice caves, piles of blankets, and the steep mountainous terrain was a path winding around a bed in the middle of a normal room. And somehow that didn't change a thing: Dad was still stuck, others had died, I was fleeing an enemy while constantly expecting to freeze or fall to my death. Though I knew I was playing make-believe, the consequences were real, and I kept on pretending.

I'm not going to tell you what it means.

materialism

My very generous mother gave me three hundred dollars with which to buy clothes. Not just any clothes. Ann Taylor clothes, or the equivalent. She wanted me to blow the whole amount on one outfit. The motive, I'm sure, was to relieve me from the stress of calculations and penny-pinching. A secondary motive is that my mother wants me to dress better. She always has. (I remember the year I spent the Gap gift card on men's dress shirts. I just wasn't ready then to wear anything feminine.)

I did what she wanted...almost. I bought two outfits from Banana Republic and spent the entire three hundred dollars. I bought the clothes because they fit my body and they matched my mom's requirements, namely something I would never buy for myself. By the time I got on the bus to go home, I knew that I already hated the clothes and I would never wear them.

There were several problems with these clothes:

The first is that they are hand-wash only. Yeah right.

The second is that they are too recognizable. I could only wear them once every month or so, because they are not everyday wear. They are exactly what my mom wanted, outfits that I would not normally buy. Which means, something I would not wear.

I suppose that wearing them seldom means that they would last longer, because the third problem with them is that they are thin, flimsy things that will soon disintegrate from too much washing by hand.

But mostly, they are not my style. I would feel conspicuous wearing them, like the scene in Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken where Sonora goes to the clip 'n curl. (Did you know that Al, her dreamy co-star, makes hand crafted furniture for a living in small-town Pennsylvania?) I would be playing dress up. The clothes would be using me, instead of vice versa. I feel like I couldn't live up to their expectations for me.

This, by the way, is the reason that I dislike diamonds so much: they are stuffy and formal and come with a list of expectations. I like colorful gemstones, because they are accessible, while still being valuable and pretty. I told Kevin to buy me an emerald engagement ring, even though I could have a diamond, not because I am cheap, but because I want an emerald. I have known since I was ten years old that I want an emerald engagement ring. When I get it, it will be the culmination of a fourteen-year desire.

I am not above desiring material goods. I want an emerald because it is pretty, not because it is useful or durable or any other responsible adjective I can insert here. I have a list that I keep of things to buy when I have disposable income. Sometimes I find good deals and make a purchase and cross it off my list, feeling very satisfied. I had knee-high brown boots on my list for two years before I bought some. I found Fiddler on the Roof for five dollars and crossed off a five-year line item, and I even broke my budget to do so. I understand wanting to have things. I can go into a book store with a $50 gift card and come out with a $100 purchase, a stack of books I can barely carry. I get it.

What I don't understand is having to want things. I walked into Ann Taylor and then Banana Republic with the intention of buying something. Nothing in either of those stores has ever been on my list of things I want. I felt like I was fabricating desires as I rifled through racks looking for pants. This one is my size, could I want it? Having no innate desire to own pin stripe trousers, I found myself thinking about the classy women who wear them. Don't I want to be like those classy women?

That's right, I played commercial after commercial to myself in my head, pulling the same stupid stunts that advertisers do while messing with our minds. I'll be happy if I can just own this pair of $89 dollar trousers, like all the classy women do. I perpetuated socioeconomic fashion hierarchies. This is what rich people wear, so it must be what's best. I even found myself damning my body when the pants wouldn't fit. Sure, sometimes I may not like that I've put on weight, but I have never had real enmity between me and my body. My body is part of who I am, and I could no more hate it than I could hate my innermost self (she's fabulous, by the way).

My innermost self hates materialism. I hate thinking about money. My number one short-term goal is to pay off my debt (a result of early bouts of immediate gratification). Because of that I live off of beans and rice to pay more money down each month. My number two short-term goal is to write. I view myself as a starving artist. I sacrifice career goals for time in the evenings in which to imagine. A starving artist simply cannot wear preppy business attire. My innermost self likes getting presents for the anticipation, for the wrapping paper, but really likes memories better than things. I find more pleasure in a long-awaited pay off than in receiving something that comes easily. (Take my relationship with Kevin for example.)

That's why I hate the Banana Republic clothes. Those two outfits cost more than $300. They cost my entire list of clothes that I really want but can't afford. I want khakis. Not beige pin-stripe trousers. Khakis. With pockets. I want a tote bag that will fit all of my books that I carry around daily. I want new scriptures.

So, I've made a decision. I'm returning my two outfits and buying everything that I can from my list. I am buying what I want, what I really want. Things that are functional and durable and resilient and...pretty.

I'm going to the Gap.

mothers' day

Mothers' Day is a ridiculous holiday foundation for Sacrament Meeting. Is Arbor Day next? They are about equally religious and universal. Mothers' Day Sacrament Meeting is always a cry-fest of personal maternal nostalgia. I don't care about others' mothers, and I'm sure they don't care about mine. Motherhood is a worthy sacred subject, but individual mothers? Call me cynical--many have--but I'd rather do as my own Mom did (see, you're already bored) and skip church on Mothers' Day, even if that means I don't get the free flower.

talking to kevin

There are times when I enjoy being angry. The feeling is cathartic. Plus, I am often at my funniest, most dry and cynical, when I am angry. As someone who is generally not funny, I appreciate my own wit in the midst of a rant. Laughter and anger are amicable opponents.

What I never enjoy--unless it is accompanied by a suitable amount of pride-satisfying "i-told-you-so"--is disappointment. Hoping is hard. It makes one vulnerable, softens skin, weakens defenses. So disappointment hurts more.

But sometimes even disappointment has a sweet aftertaste. And sometimes anger leaves me feeling peaceful.

Talking to Kevin has always been one of my favorite things. He is funnier and more interesting than anyone else I know. But I didn't realize until this weekend (or perhaps I had known it but forgotten) how healing it is.

Last Saturday, work reached its ultimate low point, a hellish end to a hellish week. I had no patience with which to meet even small trials. When Kevin called to ask me for a walk, I took my anger out on him, and the stroll consisted of me venting frustrations and generally abusing the world. And Kevin listened, laughing at my more wry comments, pretending sympathy or calming me, as appropriate. By the end he had me laughing without any dark humor at all, just from genuine good will. We ended the evening sitting on my couch in half-light and talking quietly. I felt not just cheered but refreshed, serene. Just because he listened.

Then Wednesday, he didn't call when he said he would, and I couldn't help feeling disappointed. To get out my feelings I wrote a four-page stream of consciousness, expressing dissatisfaction at insecure plans and impatience to be married. In a surly mood, I made him read it, while I hid my cowardly eyes. And when he had finished taking a beating, meeting with patience my lack, he leaned back and said, "I'm not going anywhere." There are times, quite frequently, when I fall in love with him all over again. This was one of the best. Maybe the best, but I hate to make that assertion at so emotional a time. Of four pages of bilge, he found the important point: not why I was disappointed, not why I was irritated, but why I was afraid. And he addressed that fear. I heard him say it and I felt amazed that he had heard what I didn't even know I had said. He really gets me. I felt stupid with relief. He held me a while longer, while I made other confessions (he has a way of getting me to confide things I never thought to tell), and I kept thinking, he's perfect.

He asked me out for tonight and tomorrow with specific plans, as though proving he heard me. I appreciate his alacrity, but I feel I need to give him a reprieve from my strictures. And I have to apologize for criticizing him with such vehemence. Beneath his sarcastic exterior, he is quite sensitive. Besides, apologizing gives me a chance to talk to him, and that is my all-time favorite thing.

will marry for internet

I called my mom when I found out that I can't buy the laptop. It's not that I can't afford the computer, but it turns out that we don't have internet in my apartment, and I can't afford the monthly payment. I vented my frustration to my mother, telling her how disappointed I am. This is just another disappointment among many. My current job temping is another big one; in fact, it is the big one. It is the reason that my feet hurt, that I ride a bus two hours each day, that I cannot pay off my debt as quickly as I would like, and the reason that I cannot use the internet except once a week. I hate my job, but crappy pay is better than no pay. I thought buying a computer would be a viable solution to my frustrations. I could use the internet at night to check email, apply for jobs, etc. Well, that dream died.

"You know," my mom said, "if you just got married, all your problems would go away."

Yes, she meant it seriously.

"Really?" I asked her. "Getting married would make me more marketable?"

She didn't answer.

"So, getting married will make the job I hate go away? It will get me a new and better position?"

"Well, no; but being married, some expenses go down, you know. You'd be able to share rent."

"I share rent now," I answered.

"I know, but maybe you would worry less about money."

"I'm not worried about money. I hate my job, I hate the bus and I hate beans, but I'm not worried about money."

"But you could..."

"I could what? What would it fix?"

"You'd at least have access to the internet!" she concluded, triumphant.

"Yes, mom, if I got married I would have internet."

I ended the conversation then, because I was angry and I do not talk when I am angry. I felt angry at my mother's attitude. Firstly, since her divorce, she ought to have grown out of the idea that marriage solves problems. Secondly, she acts as though I were purposefully delaying marriage, like I'm not interested in it and I need a bribe to get me to take the plunge. Gee, mom, I've always thought I'd die celibate, but if you think I could get wi-fi... Fairy tales have nothing on my mom when it comes to romance. I can just picture Cinderella standing outside the castle with a cardboard sign: will marry for internet.

at work

-A co-worker passed me at the cash register, and I asked her with an uninviting tone, "what do you want?" The rest of the day, she threw comments my way in passing: "World peace," "Jim, from The Office," "A job where I don't have to dress like this," "a nicer apartment." From my one thoughtless comment, I learned a lot about this girl.

-I met a girl named Owen and a boy named Jason Everett. Random.

-I was told by two managers that they would hire me in a second ("Half a second, even!") if they could. Flattering but, ultimately, not helpful.

job interview, take two

This was my good luck card from Nora. I got it before setting out for my interview this morning. I think it helped. I'll find out tonight.

scared in the dark

I had to force myself awake last night, and, as I lay panting in bed, I could swear I still heard screaming. My heart pounded so loudly that I knew that wherever he hid (probably under my bed), he could hear it. The face in my dreams terrified me, and I tried to keep myself from blinking in case I fell asleep again. I couldn't move, though my bladder ached for relief. I haven't been afraid of putting my feet over my bed in ages, but last night I reverted to my four-year-old self. I wept in bed for an hour before I managed to run to the bathroom, my heart skipping a beat in the dark, while I fumbled frantically for the light switch. I tried to remain awake as long as possible, covering my ears against the imagined shrieks of fear and pain, afraid even to turn my back to the wall for protection, because he had come through the wall in the nightmare. I am still shaken this morning, not only from lack of sleep, but also from the dark and evil images that won't leave me. That face, the arm coming at me through the wall, the eye peering in from behind a darkened window screen, the silent feet walking beneath the false floor, the shadow hiding in the closet. The screaming. I'm pretty sure I won't sleep for a week.

billy joel

I thought walking to Petsmart would help me, but when I saw the puppies and kittens I burst into tears in the middle of the store, right in front of employees and other customers. So, I crossed the parking lot to Chick-fil-A for ice cream and coke. I sat in a corner licking an enormous pile of soft serve and talking to Joyce, both of which helped immensely. Then She's Always a Woman came on. I love Billy Joel. I have a soft spot for him in my heart right next to Rascal Flatts and Phantom of the Opera (so....ten o'clock?). Nostalgia made me smile, and I thought I would get through the rest of today without any more crying, but that was a serious underestimation of my reaction to nostalgia. Now I can't decide why I'm crying. I think it's because Target didn't have the Billy Joel CD that I wanted.

peter on water

Things were working fine until I looked down at the waves.

job offer

I was offered a job yesterday. And I don't want it. The responsible thing would be to accept it, which I did, not because I'm responsible, but because I was blind-sided by the offer. I was walking through the Co-op to pick up my check, when the front manager asked me if I'd be interested in 35 hours a week running the outlet. Strictly speaking, I'd still be a temp, but I'd have guaranteed hours. I believe I stammered when I said I would be interested (notice I did not say "am") and he told me to come in for training next week and walked off. I never got to think about it.

If I had thought about it, I would have been annoyed at how cheap the Co-op is. They fired the outlet employee, because she was getting benefits and higher pay than a temp. I would work nearly full-time at eight dollars an hour. Sure, that's all I've been getting there up until now, but as a temp there is a certain trade-off. No responsibility, lower pay. Now they want me to run their satellite store for the same low pay. It's an insult. I would rather earn more per hour and work fewer hours. It's not how much money I bring home, but how much my time is valued. And right now, it's being valued less than before I received my damned degree. At 35 hours a week, I'll earn enough to pay bills and debt every month, but I'll also have no time to apply for a better job or to have hobbies or friends. 35 hours at the Co-op is five days a week, Tuesday through Saturday. Add the hour plus on the bus each way, and I will become effectively cloistered in that small, cheap life.

Boring too. There is nothing to do there, and I am tired of how blank my life is. The slowest, emptiest days are those when I work at the Co-op. Yes, I receive money, but no, I do not earn it. I am much more productive staying home. Even on the days when all I accomplish in the afternoon is a mini-marathon of Gilmore Girls. At least I spend every morning applying for jobs. I've applied for more than eighty, I'm quite certain. And this, this, is the best I can get.

I came home and cried.

my high point

no go

I did not get the job. But I am going shoe shopping to drown my sorrows.

job interview

I had a job interview today. The first in this round of job hunting. I hope that it went well. I'd feel better about it if a button on my blouse, which has shown no tendency for this in the past, hadn't popped open mid-interview. I will find out tonight for better or for worse. The next time you hear from me, I will either be horribly and irrevocably crushed, or I will be planning how to spend my first paycheck.

sick day

I called in sick this morning to work. And by work, I mean the lack of work that I do while temping at the Co-op. I don't know how sick I really am. I haven't coughed since I woke up, but I felt an uncomfortable tightness in my throat. It even kind of itches. Mostly, I didn't want to stand behind a cash register, staring stupidly at the Disney Channel, waiting in vain to be useful. So I took the day. Partly because I wanted to make sure this tickle in my throat doesn't become something more. I have a job interview tomorrow, and I would rather not have to clear my throat every few seconds. It makes a bad impression. I also wanted to use the Internet, which is available to me only during business hours, in order to plan my route to the aforementioned interview. I also plan to find a lost sweater, write some fiction and watch a movie. Maybe I'll even eat some soup so that I feel better about being sick.

burned

I had a dream a few weeks ago that my apartment burned down. I lost everything, despite my attempts to run back into the building. Afterward, as I stood in my ball gown (I don't know why I was in formal wear) next to Kevin, looking at the ruins of my building, I felt a hollow place inside me. I did not mind the loss of my clothes, long since reduced to ash. I mourned my books, and I felt real grief for the loss of my USB device, complete with all of my writing. It was for this last thing that I had been willing to brave the flames. I wept over that loss. Yet, that was not the worst pain of the night. The hardest part was discovering that I owned nothing more than the clothes on my back, a brown hoodie in the mailbox, and the furniture that I had in my mom's storage. I felt so small, knowing that I had nothing to offer to anybody. I don't remember telling Kevin about my furniture, but I remember him telling me that he didn't like it and he didn't want it. The only thing that I had to give him and he didn't want it! I felt crushed, devastated. I knew then that I couldn't marry him because I had nothing to offer. I took off his suit coat, which he had gallantly lent me, and stumbled to my mailbox, where I retrieved my fleece hoodie. I think the dream ended very Incredible Hulk-esque, with me walking off alone, but without the theme music. I kept crying all day as images bombarded my waking mind. This nightmare, though less violent than many, pierced all of my insecurities. The fire in the dream just made more apparent that which is. I fear that someday others will see what I saw in the flames there: that I have nothing to give in return for all that is given to me.

finals nightmare

My finals nightmare took a different twist than usual. I showed up for a test, and I kept calling a girl from my class by the wrong name. I first called her Jody, then Josey and finally Judy. Her name is Erin. Jody and Josey are also in that class. The dream made me afraid that I really hadn't learned anything in there, not even Erin's name.

at the end of my rope

I am going to SCREAM!

First, my house was taken over by velcro-pulling, cane-thumping, alarm-setting, mess-making loud mouth cattle.

And NOW the damned cleaning crew in the library are THUMPING! Over and over and never in any sort of rhythm.

I. am. losing. my. sanity...

to dye a virgin

I really did think that I would never, ever dye my hair. I was proud of that fact. I prefer things low maintenance, so I knew I would never keep up my hair color, and I am not afraid of growing old; in fact, I rather like my gray hair.

But, I was bored. I wanted a change, the kind of change that requires new clothes, new makeup, contacts or a new haircut. I have completely chopped my hair four times in my life and spent years growing it back each time. My hair is now the longest it's ever been. So, to stop myself from a regrettable move, I pounced on the opportunity my sisters offered of dyeing my hair with them.

The color they chose is practically identical to my natural hue. Joyce helped me through the actual process, since it was my first time and I have a lot of hair. And I had a lot of fun doing it. I felt adventurous, believe it or not, dyeing my hair. And, weirdly, I really like the new color. It is a little nuttier than my natural color, and now the gray doesn't show. In fact, my hair is incredibly shiny and healthy-looking (though considerably more damaged in actuality) all over.

The best thing about the dyeing process was really that it alleviated the boredom I had been feeling with myself. I still want jeans that aren't so old that they look white-washed. If I could, I would even own that turquoise corduroy coat from Target. And I definitely still want contacts, for a variety of reasons, including that glasses get in the way of some expressions of affection. But at least I no longer want to cut my hair off.

group paper

When we started the damn project, I apologized that, with my schedule and upcoming GRE, I would be the worst person to count on for this paper. I did my part, but I was the slacker. Or so I thought. I mean, I didn't do my section until a week after we had agreed to turn them into each other. It turns out that once again, I am the one doing the work and doing it well. The final paper is due today. The conclusion hasn't been written, and I am trying to edit the introduction that, no joke, includes the line "This is called the American Dream." Only some of my freshmen write worse than this. I'm planning on printing the paper sans ending, because at this point, I cannot do any more work. I've done it all already. My group will have to live with the C that they've earned.

* * *

Okay, make that a D. The grades just went up. This sucks.

worst song ever

Window to His Love is meant to be spiritual and inspiring. It is in fact doctrinally unsound, belittling and nauseating. I was disgusted.

spring onion

I originally wrote this 9/25/07, but hadn't yet added any of my thoughts. I still haven't, but I want to post it.

In the book the Karamazov Brothers (or Brothers Karamazov, depending on your translation), Grushenka, the town's whore, tries to seduce a young monk, but stops herself when she hears he is in mourning for his mentor. He praises her virtue and in return she tells him this story:

"You see, Alyosha," Grushenka turned to him with a nervous laugh. "I was boasting when I told Rakitin I had given away an onion, but it's not to boast I tell you about it. It's only a story, but it's a nice story. I used to hear it when I was a child from Matryona, my cook, who is still with me. It's like this. Once upon a time there was a peasant woman and a very wicked woman she was. And she died and did not leave a single good deed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire. So her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could remember to tell to God; 'She once pulled up an onion in her garden,' said he, 'and gave it to a beggar woman.' And God answered: 'You take that onion then, hold it out to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be pulled out. And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to Paradise, but if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is.' The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. 'Come,' said he, 'catch hold and I'll pull you out.' he began cautiously pulling her out. He had just pulled her right out, when the other sinners in the lake, seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her so as to be pulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking them. 'I'm to be pulled out, not you. It's my onion, not yours.' As soon as she said that, the onion broke. And the woman fell into the lake and she is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away. So that's the story, Alyosha; I know it by heart, for I am that wicked woman myself. I boasted to Rakitin that I had given away an onion, but to you I'll say: 'I've done nothing but give away one onion all my life, that's the only good deed I've done.' "

recent sountrack to me

Recently some songs have struck a chord with me.

Billy Joel- "She's Always a Woman"
Dashboard Confessional - "The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most"
Ben Fold and Regina Spektor - "You Don't Know Me"
Vivaldi - "Winter from the Four Seasons"
Simon and Garfunkel - "I am a Rock"



These are songs from earlier eras of my life. They are not necessarily favorites, or even ones around which there are many memories. These are simply songs that explained at some time or another exactly how I felt. The list is not exhaustive.

Billy Joel - "For the Longest Time"
Dashboard Confessional - "Hands Down"
Jewel - "You Were Meant for Me"
Celine Dion - "It's All Coming Back to Me"
Lucky Boys Confusion - "Fred Astaire"
Wicked soundtrack - "For Good"
Death Cab for Cutie - "The Sound of Settling"
Avril Lavigne - "I'm with You"
Cranberries - "Dreams"

sometimes a limerick suffices

I'm tired of being invisible.
Your affections are far too divisible.
What can I do,
to get through to you,
and convince you that I am quite miss-able?

my nephew

This is my first ever nephew, Owen Hunter Clement, and he is beautiful.

solicitous

People who are solicitous hover in such a way that I wonder what they are selling, or what they need from me. They are not there for my sake, their how-are-yous are forced out of their mouths like a whine, and they gain satisfaction from mealy hugs that are worse than their dead-fish handshakes. Their very presence is apologetic, which begs the question, what offense have they committed? The answer, for there most certainly is one, is that they are carrion fowl: they are there to prey, to take life from others' lifelessness, to conquer in a sideways-creeping fashion that which they could not bring down in its height of strength: they are eaters of the dead.

They do not view themselves this way. They view themselves as helpers. They are there to support, succor, aid, assist. These nice verbs, settled firmly into a positive connotation of Christian virtues, lack one thing: an object. These verbs demand one, they need one in order to have any meaning. I help... what? whom? Those who base their identity on these verbs invariably demand the aid of someone else to underpin it. These helpers must search for willing victims to validate their identity. That is what they demand of you when they hover and smother and paw. Let me help you, is their plea. Without you to help, they are incomplete, vacuous things. You legitimize them, solidify them, humanize them. You remove the question mark from their self-identity. I help you.

Save me from the solicitous! Every time I hear their queries, I feel the blood seeping away from me toward their gluttonous bellies. I want to scream and raise my arms in defense, to beat away their predatory advances. I'd rather run and hide than hug them in that sideways fashion, but to do that might hurt their feelings, heaven forbid. So often I submit to their caresses, overtly intended to convey their sorrow while really fueling their pleasure, and I feel drained by them, like a bite has been taken from my soul to feed theirs. And these are the helpers of the world!

Give me the life-givers. These are the people who don't ask for validation: they are completely self-actualized. They are. Whatever adjective follows this verb is self-contained and does not require an object. Sometimes they are grumpy, irascible, gruff. But at least they are. This does not imply that they never have needs outside of themselves, only that their needs do not threaten your own. They may ask for anything from a cup of sugar to a hug to a lifetime commitment, but they do so with candor, allowing you to freely grant or refuse. Their very requests honor your independence. And their hugs are strong like their handshakes, giving as much as taking.

Solicitous persons do not like these free agents, who grant them nothing. To them, the latter are rude, uncouth. They do not adhere to expectations for their behavior. They break rules. This is precisely why I like them, those I typically call jerks: they do not bend their behavior to my expectations and they have no expectations for my behavior. It is very freeing. When I am low and have nothing to give, the only company I can abide is that of people who do not need anything from me. Their energy does not sap the remnants of my own, but allows me to build up my own reserves against future parasites. Plus, they're okay when I am mean to them. And lately, I've been mean a lot.

recent nightmares

I finally mentioned to my counselor that I have nightmares. I overlooked telling him before, because to me they are rather commonplace. I have had them consistently for four and a half years now, so I forgot there is something unusual in waking frightened and sad from lengthy and vivid dreams at least three times a week. So my counselor asked me to start writing my dreams down; he wants to find a pattern and thus fix my broken subconscious. I told him there is no pattern to my dreams anymore, though there used to be. This is not entirely true. The last week I have noticed that in all of my nightmares I am lost. I cannot find my way to where I want to be. Familiar buildings have suddenly unfamiliar layouts, rooms I cannot navigate. I haven't reached my destination yet--too many fearsome things prevent me from doing so--but I spend a lot of the night running. I am unsurprised by my discovery; these are the same feelings that overwhelm my waking hours too.

five years ago today

Five years ago today, I became friends with April over a parade. I had an ankle the size of a small melon, and she and I walked (or limped) to ninth east to watch the homecoming floats idle past. Our status as roommates became something more. That day alone I learned that she loves anything innocent and childlike. She hops when she is giddy. And she makes friends easily. I do not. I'm glad I went to that parade.

Five years ago tonight, I had my first date with Kevin. It was his birthday, and he and I doubled with another couple for game night on campus. I remember I wore boots to support my ankle, and I had a terribly difficult time talking with strangers. I always do. He didn't ask me out again until February.

For five years I have loved these two people. For five years I have had the same conversations with April about Kevin, first while she and I sat on the vanity in our apartment and then via phone from across a continent.I have been grateful everyday that I know them both. They have shaped my life in the years since I met them. They always will.

When I had to register for the GRE, I picked October 11th because, call me superstitious, but the date had a nice auspicious feeling to it. I am glad of things that happen on this day.

zebras don't change their spots

I recently decided that chick-flicks annoy me. Part of it is the glamorization of womanizing. I just watched Made of Honor, which besides being a hodge-podge of every obnoxious movie plot, made me hate romantic comedies. The main character is a slut, never sleeping with the same woman twice in a row. We accept this because he is a man, and his father has taught him to be this way (and in other movies it is adorable because his promiscuity is a result of a broken heart). And somehow we as the audience are supposed to hope that he gets the girl in the end. He's completely commitment phobic, but now he's in love with the best friend that he marginalized for a decade. We're supposed to find it romantic that he loves the one he never slept with, that now he's changed. That's what chick-flicks promote: the romance of love-inspired change. It's a testimony to how much the guy loves the girl that he could give up his wicked ways. Then it doesn't matter that he is a slut, or a drinker, or a gambler, or violent. He'll change because, girl, you changed him. Feel blessed, feel loved, and feel confident in his continued fidelity.

Bull. Shit.

My first question is, how do you know that you're the one he really changed for or the one he can't change for? In every chick-flick there are multiple failures before the happily ever after. This is true of women as well as men. The same example of Made of Honor is that she was completely in love with this Scottish Duke but then made a split-second decision at the altar to be with the New York Slut instead. I admit, Patrick Dempsey is hot, but the twist annoys me. Why is this one supposed to work, when the previous attempts have failed? What changed? The answer: nothing. The only difference is that the movie is over. That's what cues the actors and the audience that the happily ever after has arrived. Take any romantic comedy, and the actors are in previous relationships where they think they have found "the one" until something comes along to hurt that, nothing that is the protagonist's fault, of course. So, given their previous security and bliss, followed by utter ruination, what's to say that this time won't be exactly like that?

Cynical you say? Maybe.

There is an answer. The reason you feel secure is because you establish a new pattern. You have to judge the future based on the past. Because of this, some people are afraid to get hurt again, since that is their pattern, but others find the ability to trust someone else based on the pattern of their behavior. That's what John Cusack movies use to help him get the girl: he has a pattern of being hopelessly devoted. If you fall in love with John Cusack, you are safe. So see, I am not against romance; I am against idiocy. I am against choosing the slut, the adventurer, the workaholic, the married man, the liar, the flake. Yet protagonists, fictional and real, do it, because their egocentric attitudes tell them that they are the ones these profligates will change for.

Prove it.

I am not against change. I believe that it can happen, that it can be a true sincere change. And I do believe that love can be the catalyst. I just think that it doesn't happen as much as we would like to believe. Nor as easily. Maybe I am basing this on my patterns of behavior: I fall into the same rote time and again, and it is damn hard for me to break my habits, especially when it comes to how I related to others. Sometimes, I make a really good start, a determined sprint, and then I lose the drive, motivation or ability. When the change is real, it comes slowly, painfully and with conscious effort and attention to the small things. It's like diet and exercise: the grapefruit juice diet leads to binging, while walking a couple blocks a day is likely to stick. I believe in small changes.

I would still hedge my bets.

I don't approve of saying when..., as in, it will be better when... I will be happy when... That's the current code of my life, because I have been so unhappy, clinging to the idea that this will go away when... and that's where I get pissed off. If I am not happy now, I will not be happy when.... So while changes happen, even big changes, common sense dictates that you do not bet on them. The pattern shows that he is faithful and kind, as opposed to, he will be faithful and kind when...

Some patterns are easy to recognize. There are some easy color or number patterns, where you can see 2,4,6 and 8 are going to lead to 10. Correlative patterns are harder. She becomes irrational and moody every four weeks :: she is a werewolf. Maybe his bad mood coincides with BYU football losses and it's not the fact that you brought up bills. So, yes, I do believe in situational factors. Maybe he is distant because there is more stress at work and he really will be better when... But again, to know this, one has to see the pattern that suggests he is usually very much attentive when he is not so burdened. Because maybe he is just distant and nothing is going to change that.

I said that I am good at seeing patterns. And I am. But sometimes in my own life, I cannot see as clearly. I am going to counseling for this reason. I keep journals and reread them so I can better see the patterns in my life. I also get an earful of it from my friends. When several friends offer the same criticism or advice, I begin to see a pattern in their concern, a concern that might be worth noticing. Right now, their concerns seem to revolve around the same thing: my stubborn blindness toward certain patterns in others.

to be continued...

i hate

• the glamorization that commitment-phobic, womanizing megalomaniacs receive in chick-flicks
• being in limbo
• the idea that the best laid plans are wrong
• not having a plan
• not being able to just take the life I want
• nightmares
• having slow people start walking in front of me when I have to be somewhere
• failing
• not having the guts to try when I think I'm going to fail
• settling
• the way chick-flicks show a complete turn-around at the end that goes against the premise
• sitting through stupid classes
• not being able to write even though that is the thing I most want to do
• money
• having to tell myself that my dreams are not likely to come true
• the scars on my elbows
• spending hours on my hair and having it look terrible
• first semester freshmen
• walking through Target and putting things back that I can't afford to buy
• wearing glasses
  
• the drive to have more stuff as if stuff makes life better
• working out
  
• the ten pounds I've gained this year
• waiting
• not being able to say things they way I had it planned in my head
• secrets
• that getting better makes me fall apart along the way
• my walls
• the go-go-go mentality that makes life crowded and frustrating
• watching tv
• feeling like I will only be worth something when I have a degree
• comparing myself with others
• having to get a grown-up job once I graduate
• debt
• being angry all the damn time
• swearing
  
• people
• Nazis
  

my rendering of aslan

In art class today, we went to the Bean Museum and drew animals. We had to do sketches and then one final picture. I felt no passion for antelopes or beavers, and I wanted to enjoy the project; so, I sat myself in front of a lion--not an eating or pouncing lion, but a stately lion, looking proudly and serenely down over his nose at me. I couldn't use charcoal or graphite for him, heaven forbid, so I used a clay-colored crayon. I fell in love with him as I drew. I felt worshipful of the subject and careful with my copy. I thought of CS Lewis. Families came through and many stopped and watched me work. One little boy told me that I "drew that nice." A little girl informed her mother that she "wants to draw one of those." Mothers told their children to practice so they could draw like that one day. One woman told me that my work was beautiful; another said it was stunning. I felt gratified by these compliments, of course. But I was most pleased that in the end it came out exactly as I pictured it. He looks like a King.

fiction: an exercise in creation

I have cried my way through the last five episodes of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and then the movie The Family Stone. But it was especially during the former that I felt truly attached to the individuals and invested in the unfolding events. When the characters were praying, I felt like I ought to pray too, for their benefit. It was then that I had an epiphany.

I want to write fiction. I know, big surprise, right? But I want it more than I want almost any of my goals in my life. I want to be able to mold universes and characters, to draw people in and convince my readers that this world really exists. I want to use fiction to persuade and teach and inspire. In pursuing this thought, I wondered whether I have a theme or pattern to my writing--you know, the purpose that is driving me. For Ayn Rand it was the proselytizing of capitalism; for Tolkien and Lewis, Christianity; for Pullman, atheism; for Austen, gender-equality; and for Danielle Steele, sex. So I thought about my projects, and asked about each one, what is the theme?

I have six novels simmering in my brain, each ready to be written, were I to take the time to put pen to paper. (Like I have that time!) In each and every book, my theme is redemption--redemption of self, of relationships and of society. The characters in my book all purposefully shape the world they are in, constructing it consciously, in an effort to make it better. They build society, their relationships and themselves as they want them to be, with the underlying value of redeeming the past by creating a better future. There is also a personal redemption for the main character, as there must be, wherein grace enters and blesses his or her undertakings.

The personal ability to shape the world, to manufacture of it what one wants it to be, this is the common thread in all of my stories, and it is also the reason that I want to write. When I write, I control the character's growth, the relationships' progression and the shape of their world. I make life into whatever I want it to be. I can ensure that everything works out as it should: there is justice where none was before, hope, happy endings. My writing is my way of using this creative power, to make things better, and the way I make things better is by empowering individuals in my story, and perhaps someday out of it.

So this is my ambition, my long-cherished wish. I want to write.

There are, of course, obstacles in my way. The first being that I am not published. This makes it difficult to finance sitting at home and writing. It is not profitable to spend one's time that way until it is lucrative...which of course it cannot be until one has written. So, there it is: I will grow old stealing minutes at an ancient lap top, until I can finish a single project, whereby I may be judged and deemed worthy of writing openly.

art for communism's sake

Maybe I was overreacting, but I was very offended by an art project that I had to do recently. I knew beforehand that I would find it distasteful, because my teacher said we'd be doing something fun. She first had us each draw various body parts, enough for anatomical correctness but still separate images. Then she had us pool all of our work, which she doled out randomly. We each ended up with the correct number of each feature or appendage, but none of them matched and none of them belonged to the original artist. We then had to make a picture using our new pieces by cutting, pasting and drawing in the missing body structure. If you think this sounds like fun, then we cannot be friends.

I object to the project on principle.

I drew well. My pieces looked good. But the pieces I had to use for my project looked like crap. The legs especially: I had to replace my Princess Diana shapely heel-clad leg with something that resembled a four-year-old's interpretation of a tree. And the dim-wits who produced such atrocities received my carefully shaped and shaded features. Yes, I was angry that I had put in so much effort in return for crap. I am angry that I had to put my name on their work and that they could put theirs on mine. I feel that I got punished for doing my best. This is more than a dumb art project. This is communism in practice: from each according to his ability, to each according to his need. Am I overreacting? Is it "just an art assignment"? Evil on any level, macro or the very insignificant micro, is still evil and must be resisted as such. To punish virtue and reward vice is corrupt and immoral.

Another immorality she supported is putting one's name on another's work. I believe that is called cheating and is frowned upon by the Honor Code.

In addition, the final product looked terrible. Every single one of them. Granted, I put no effort into improving the failures of others, but some people tried very hard to correct the mess they were give to work with. None of them looked at all good. My teacher thought this was funny. I thought it was a sacrilege, a blasphemy to the name of art. We didn't start with a blank canvas to be shaped by our skill. We were given a chaotic muck and held to the same standard of creative production. Our only options were to accept a poor product by doing no work or twice the work, but the end result was ugly, no matter what we did. It wasn't even art for art's sake, because we wasted talent on carnage, the murder of art. Calling such ugliness art is a crime.

I really think that the project was an exercise in communism. So just remember kids: communism results in ugly misshapen people.

dispassion

I am trying desperately to maintain a facade of dispassion this week. The difficulty arises that my own nature fights against it. I heal too well.

Last week, disinterest hung around me like a cloud. It was my shield, my armor. It worked a little like shark armor: I could still get crushed but not ripped apart. I made it through the week, and I can give my shield no higher praise than that. On Sunday, I made a full 24-hour fast just asking for strength to get through one more week.

I have handled my responsibilities with admirable efficiency. I was disciplined and focused. I just had to shut off my emotions to do so. I couldn't fight a two-front war. I'm not going to repeat Germany's errors. My detached attitude allows me to focus, to use my strength where it is needed. My strength really is quite priceless lately. It runs out as evening sets in, and doesn't stretch far enough for trivialities. Nora is annoyed, I think, that I attend fewer social activities. I still go to things, but I cannot go to everything. I need my evenings in order to reboot. Sleeping does not do it. Eating does not do it. Careful destruction and reconstruction in a quiet environment, that's what does it.

I'm worried, however, this morning by my almost cheery attitude. Usually, I cannot be unhappy for long (There have been exceptions, and I was beginning to think this was one). I'm annoyed, because it's a wasteful use of my energy. I am still remarkably un-invested emotionally. I don't care for the most part, but rays are peeking out around the clouds. In other words, I am not being dispassionate. There are chinks in my armor, and the sharks are still about.

rejection

I rarely check my Gmail account, because I have only sent three emails with it. They were three submissions to literary journals. I have received two rejections, and I keep waiting for the third. I wonder when I'll finally get it so I can stop waiting. I think receiving bad news is better than anticipating it.

dances with wolves

I had a nightmare Wednesday night that left me shaken and depressed all day Thursday. I had more energy for hiking because of the fierce self-destructive drive pushing me forward. I had no appetite when I got home, and I preferred laying in bed to doing anything. I kept my mind away from replays of the dream by reciting poetry, scripture and song lyrics. When I finally went to bed, I felt calm, if not happy. Then a random scene from Dances with Wolves popped into my brain (the scene where the soldiers shoot the wolf) and I sprang up in my bed and began sobbing, bawling hysterically over a fictional even that I wasn't even witnessing. I finally hushed myself and lulled myself to sleep by imagining that my bed was rocking in a breeze. I think I'm cracking up.

wednesday's dream

I dreamed a dream
that changed my life,
not a vision but a sight.
I woke convinced
my mind had shown
truth that needed to be known.
His face with hers,
how they touched hands,
shattering well-cherished plans.

How does one continue on,
not knowing if all hope is gone?

homesick

A week or so ago, looking up an Austin zip code, I went to Google Maps and typed in my old address. Not only did the map pop up, complete with missing zip, but so did a picture, panoramic, obviously taken from the median of my street. I had a full view of my apartment, the parking lot, my bus stop. I felt a wave of nostalgia. I could practically see myself waiting at that bus stop, reading a book and constantly checking and rechecking the bus numbers as they drove past. I can see me confidently and tiredly dismounting the bus at the end of the day. I could see myself skipping across the parking lot to visit Vivian. From that picture on Google, I saw my life there in Austin, and I missed it with a throbbing pain.

I will be visiting in August, and I keep dreaming in anticipation of seeing everything again. One disappointment is that Elizabeth will not be there. She will be in Provo. While I am glad to live in the same city for a semester, I still wish she would be in Austin for that week. Elizabeth is part of my love of Austin, a very strong draw for that place.

Another force pulling me there is Vivian. Only, I just found out that Elizabeth is selfishly trying to convince Vivian to move to Provo too! I'm outraged. They and Jared are my staples. They cannot leave me. The city would regress to the strange town it was when I moved there the first time around. There would be no inviting warmth. I could grow to love it again, but it would not be like returning home, as I have so long anticipated. Nothing has been decided by any of them, but already I am feeling torn in two. Provo is digging in its heels to get me to stay and Austin is giving up the fight.

cell discretion

I have decided that there is one very nice thing about cell phones: nobody knows when you are obsessively waiting for a call, because you, like everyone around you, have your phone on your person constantly. It helps a girl retain some pride.

under my umbrella

I have taken to walking to and from school with an umbrella. I carry it rain or shine, most especially shine. I got really sick of the perpetual sunburn on my arms, neck, ears and nose. Not only do I hate my nose being red, but also with the red comes the pain. My skin constantly hurt. And no, it does not turn into a tan. Ever. It stays burned. So I am taking a page out of Scarlet O'Hara's book and carrying what my friend John calls a parasol. I call it an umbrella. It's a plain black, no nonsense, umbrella that certainly doesn't fit the description of anything so feminine and decorative as a parasol. I like it because it looks functional. I'm not trying to make a fashion statement, or to draw attention to myself; I am trying to be comfortable.

One of my biggest fears, no joke, is sunburn. It's right up there with fears of abandonment and failure. I get physically ill when I see a sunburn, and I cringe in direct sunlight. I have been traumatized by sunlight.

When I was little, the rule about swimming was that I had to wear spf 50 sunscreen and a tee-shirt, or I had to stay in the shade. Even then, I always came away burned and often carried blisters for days. These were not innocuous blisters but mean inch-long pulsing beasts raised half an inch off of my skin, covering my shoulders and back. I've sat in baths of ice to ease the burning, which continued from the inside out, cooking my legs after a day at the lake. I needed blessings for healing after an afternoon at the pool. I've borne scars for months, delineating exactly where my shirt ended and my neck began.

That's not the worst I've ever experienced, however.

In August of 2003, I went on a road trip to California with Alyessa. We spent three hours on the beach, applying and reapplying sunscreen often. To be safe, I donned jeans after an hour to further protect my legs. It didn't help. The next day I woke up paralyzed, my legs bent at the knee as though I were crouching. The skin looked like maroon leather and the muscles underneath formed strange hard lumps, shriveled up from the heat. Alyessa had to physically stretch out my legs, a little at a time, until I could stand. The pain was horrendous, the tearing and burning that no medication could mask fully. We had to repeat this process every time I needed to walk. On the two-day drive home, I shuffled with my legs crouched under me, in the same position they had been in as I sat, whenever we stopped at a gas station. At home, I had to remain in bed, face down, while antibiotic cream and aloe were applied to the wound. My legs swelled to a uniform cylindrical shape. Joyce said I had "thankles" (thigh-ankles). When I began walking, I used my dad's cane and crouched, so as not to tear the shriveled muscles. I began to stretch them slowly, but two weeks later I still had to use the cane and walk very slowly.

My roommates don't remember my first three days in our apartment when I used a cane, and they never saw the scars. But anyone I have lived with knows my rather extreme reactions to witnessing sunburns. I preached sunscreen and deplored tanning. I kept aloe on hand, ready to dole out at any provocation. I never swam in daylight, though I had no issue with wearing swimming suits. I wore jeans no matter how hot it got.

Some of these things have changed. I still think tanning is stupid, and I advocate use of aloe. But I do wear shorts now, and skirts, quite often. It's the only thing that makes the heat bearable. But I haven't lost the fear of the sun. To compensate I carry my little black umbrella, and I smile at the sideways glances tossed my way. I don't mind looking foolish: I'd rather be practical and appear foolish than vice versa. And while a parasol may be a little silly, my umbrella is nothing if not practical.

tact

The following is a true story told by my professor about his friend.

A young woman and her date arrived at a formal ball, the entrance of which required the descent of a long flight of stairs into the middle of the room. Her date wore a tux and she wore a gown and together they prepared to make a graceful appearance. At the top, the girl extended her foot to take a step, but she snagged her shoe in the front hem of her dress. She tumbled head over heels the entire way down the curving staircase, her date running beside her, futilely trying to catch her. When she landed at the bottom, she rose immediately to her feet, uninjured but extremely embarrassed. All eyes were on her. Before she could recover herself, her date fished for his wallet and pulled from it a twenty-dollar bill. Handing it to her, he said casually, "Well, I admit, I didn't think you had the guts to do it."

My professor told this story to demonstrate the idea that interpretation of a situation changes its meaning, as well as Goffman's definition that tact is the protection of another's performance.

Bravo, to the stud in the tux!

man of my nightmares

I had a nightmare last night unlike I have ever known, different not in form so much as in the experience of it. There was violence, danger, frustration. I was only blocks from my McKinney home but couldn't get there. I couldn't rescue friends from impending drawn-out death. Even petty aspects of nightmares, awkward social situations, assailed me. But I felt calm. As long as he was there, I felt calm, beyond the reach of the pain, fear and frustration.

I don't know who he is. In my dreams, people remain faceless, but still I can discern their identity. For instance, though I never saw the details of them, I knew that Kevin and my high school friend Angelica were there. This man's identity was as shadowed as his face, yet I felt more familiar with him than anyone I have ever known. I was as much myself with him as I have ever been alone; no, I was more natural with him than without.

The times in my dream when I could no longer distance myself from the events of the nightmare were when his fingers slipped from mine. When we struggled through the collapsing building to save the wounded woman, he pushed me to safety. Away from danger and without him, in the moments it took for him to follow, I gasped with the most personal fear I've known. The second he touched my fingers again I felt as though no fear had ever existed .

Even though I never saw his face, I felt certain that he was someone I knew, loved and trusted. What's more, I felt the same emotions coming from him in regard to me. I didn't --couldn't-- question his love for me. Even when impediments arose and reason argued for us to part, he didn't leave me. Staying together felt right, like the rational solution to a logical problem.

The moment I woke, the first thought to assail me was the only important question, which had been so ridiculously unimportant while I slept: "who is he?"

I am still certain that he is someone I know, though obviously not in the same capacity as in the dream. Maybe he is a fictional character, perhaps even one of mine, that I know well. I just cannot put my finger on it. I have been trying to reason through all of the hints I have of his identity. He was dark --swarthy-- and well-groomed. His shadowed head bent solicitously over mine, making him 6 to 8 inches taller. He is broader than I, naturally strong through habitual activeness but with a layer of softness, as though disinterested in purposefully sculpting his body. He took commitments seriously and so hesitated to commit. He was almost carelessly loyal, indifferently moral and lazily graceful. I don't know which parts of him were fictionalized by my brain: perhaps his character is real but the figure of my invention, or vice versa. I'm still tied too firmly to the dream: I still feel certain that finding him will make things right.

I am waiting to wake up.

weighty

At the dinosaur museum I played with childlike abandonment in sandboxes and hands-on displays. I wasn't in the proper insecure-adult-female frame of mind when I jumped on the scale without my defenses in place. Due to this, the numbers struck me like a back-handed slap to the face. My jaw dropped. When Dad's turn came, he pronounced the scale accurate. I groaned with disappointment:

I am heavier than I have ever been. I know that it is completely unfeminine to discuss one's weight. So sue me. I weigh 162 lbs. I once vowed never to weigh more than 155 lbs, the weight at which I began my college career. Even 150 makes me cringe when the little red needle on the scale swings that high.

My senior year in high school was a miserable experience by and large. One part of it was the insecurity I felt about my body. I had gained ten pounds the previous summer, and I was just generally awkward. Instead of wrestling my body into submission, I accepted my feelings of inferiority. Part of the reason was Joyce's clandestine bulimia. I couldn't be the victim in a war with my body.

I lost the weight naturally the first semester of my freshman year. The ten pounds faded gradually as I walked around campus daily and as poverty limited my consumption. I've maintained a fairly steady weight with brief fluctuations of up to five pounds as holidays come and go; my body perpetuates the status quo without too much difficulty. I have typically worked on my feet, walked about town and spent little on food.

But now the driving, studying and Cafe Rio of the past six months have added up. The sum: approximately fifteen pounds. I am appalled.

The weight gain is unprecedented, and so must the reaction be. Heaven help me, I will diet and exercise. I commit myself to it here in writing. I give myself to the end of the term, 50 days hence, to lose fifteen pounds. Wait, on second thought let's make it ten: I'm new at this. That comes out to a pound every five days. Is that doable? I don't even know. Physically, I am sure I can make it, if I can discover any shred of self-discipline among my limited virtues. But I am rather interested in the emotional toll. Cognitive dissonance is practically a guarantee. I have prided myself on my amity with my body (see blog entry "self") and now I must focus on disliking my current shape and appearance. I must grant attention to my failures and insecurities. I chose to limit my diet to 50 days for this reason, and I intend to approach the experience as a scientific observation. We'll see how it goes.

I'm just a little sad that the numbers written across my mirror are counting down in reference to a diet and not for something to which I am looking forward.

ode to joyce

Joyce is home! She arrived back in town yesterday, and I wanted to squeeze her until she popped, which isn't entirely out of the question, given her condition. Her softly rounded tummy is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Unless she think that I love unborn Owen more than her, I'll say my favorite part of having her back is her hugs. It's true, too. Talking to Joyce is never uninteresting. She has a million things to say and most of them are quirky enough that no one else will ever think them, much less say them. It leaves her listeners with the distinct impression that she is irreplaceable. She's tons of fun. She is going to come to the dinosaur museum next week, and she always knows the weirdest movies. She's beautiful too. Her gentle sprinkling of freckles across her face makes her look vulnerable, even when paired with the piercings. Her hair is always the height of fashion, and I have wished before to be as cool as she is; but even if I had the clothes, the makeup and the haircut, I would not know how to use them the way she does. Joyce is a strange combination of punk kid and a mother. This was true even before Owen was a twinkle in her eye. Joyce takes care of people: she brings soup or ice cream as situations dictate. She has always been the mother figure to her weird friends, and I know she shielded me many times as we grew up, though I was the older of the two. She's going to be a wonderful mother come November. She's already making baby blankets and buying onesies. I can't wait to be an aunt. And in the meanwhile, I am very excited to be a sister.

dreams

I have simple daydreams. I envision them again and again as I fall asleep in all their intricate detail, but they are simple. Humble. I do not want palaces. I don’t even picture myself being rich and famous. I don’t want power or prestige or ease.

I imagine children and books, kitchens and gardens, and a husband.

I want to play with my children, skip rope with them, color in coloring books. I will read aloud with all the proper voices, and we will experiment with recipes. I will cuddle them and tell them I love them, and I will panic that I am failing. I want my home to be full of loving chaos: too many faces in and out, too many bicycles on the lawn and too many shoes at the bottom of the stairs. They’ll bring their friends over for rowdy games and family dinner. I want to hear first words amid indecipherable gurgling. I want to smell them after baths. I want to take too many pictures and watch them sleep on nights when I’m restless. I want to teach them to waltz, to take them hiking and to cry at their baptisms, weddings, or graduations. I want to be a mother.

My home will burst at the seams with books. In my lavish dreams, I have a real library with a dark leather sofa and dim lighting except for the lamp. I could retreat there to gorge myself on books. I’d go back again and again to beloved classics, and I will buy books because of their cover art. The room will get a little dusty, but it will be quiet—the only quiet room in the house. Maybe I won’t have a library. Instead, books will pile toward the ceiling, some laying sideways on top of others on random shelves around the house. And I will write my own books, wedging myself in whatever available corners to type out the stories parading in my head. Characters will come alive through my words, words that will likely remain forever in the dark of my personal scribbles. That will be enough for me: knowing these worlds intimately, even if no one else every will.

I want to cook, to make my kitchen a central place for family gathering, not a secreted corner of utility, but a vibrant heart of the home. I will bake. If I am poor, I will discover ever new and ever more-creative uses of pastas and beans. I can make casseroles. I will make sandwiches and cut off crusts. I want to monitor the health of my family and fool them into eating what they need.

I want to dig in the dirt. Weed, water, trim, transplant. Surround myself with life.

I want to marry, to be a wife, to belong to someone. The faceless man I picture in my future is my best friend. He and I talk about things: sad things, happy things, serious lets-make-plans things, and goofy I-overheard-this-today things. We’ll be partners. I want him to value what I do during the day, what I think about the books I read, my opinions on joint decisions. I hope he thinks I am beautiful and sometimes can’t keep his hands off me. Our children will be embarrassed by our kissing. When we fight, I hope I want to be the first to make it up. I want him to be dedicated to God first, me second, the family third—those above all else. I want him to remember little things, just to reassure me. I need reassurance sometimes, and I don’t expect that will change. I want to remind him why I love him. I want to pray together.

I don’t know if I will ever have any of these dreams. The crossroad I face at graduation is unrelated to my ultimate hopes. But how can I say aloud what I want next, when saying makes me so vulnerable? I must make plans with the options presented to me .I may get a job, or go to graduate school. I hope to do the latter, to study a subject I continue to love. And I will get fulfillment out of personal growth, while I wait and work to make my real dreams come true.

letting go

I read a line in a book once that went something like this: it is not comfortable being a bridge. (Ten points to Ted if he can name the book!)

Human beings were not designed to be bridges. We cannot live in two worlds at once. We cannot believe two contradictory truths. Sometimes we have to choose, and then we have to let go.

Often this comes with inevitable mourning. We would rather tear ourselves in two then let go of what we've long held: it amounts to the same thing.

I imagine it's how I'll feel if Brad and Angelina ever break up.

Nothing remains in the end. Especially not if we don't make a conscious effort to carry it with us.

I have had to let go of many things in my life. Difficult things. Sometimes it required a paradigm shift, of which I was only capable after many years of work. Letting go of anger hurts like that. Long-held hurt feels good in a way, and removing it is like amputating a limb. It saves your life, you're better without it, but damn it is painful!

Letting go of love is harder. I've lost friends and romance. The times that I struggled to let go were infused with self-narcotization and despair. For a time, about four months in duration, I slept too much, ate too little and prayed in tears. I never wrote about it in my blog. Those months are relatively bare, and looking back the emptiness strikes me first. It reduces me to tears, although the words are not sad. I simply remember how I felt then, why I didn't -couldn't- write. I realize that I received a reprieve, and I understand if you think that means I had it easy. But never during a single moment did I foresee that respite, that clemency. For me, the darkness of the moment was real, and I can sympathize.

I know what it is to cling to the past like a breath, knowing that to turn my back on it would be to suffocate myself. I have deleted phone numbers from speed-dial,and destroyed letters at various times in my life. But it's not the release that hurts; it's the constant tug of war that comes before, like trying to bridge two ever-dividing shores.

I know that in the future I will again be forced to let go, and the mere prospect leaves me clinging tighter to those things I love. I would rather be stretched beyond my endurance, drawn until there is no semblance of form anymore; I would rather do that than to systematically cut away a piece of myself. Perhaps that is only because I lack inurement and proper foresight.

We were meant to be whole, not divided. So, be whole.

hatred

Last Saturday I woke up feeling angry, bitter that the sun should be shining and displaying no sympathy for me. In books and movies, the weather always reflects the mood of the protagonist in a satisfying symmetry. Perhaps I am not the protagonist of my story. Perhaps I am the villain. That is certainly how I felt Saturday, and that may explain why my designs were thwarted. Protagonists never get thwarted. But that's not this story.

I sat at my computer in the library, glaring at the screen and mentally demanding my paper write itself. I felt grumpy, the kind of grumpy where I have nothing good to say and I just want to be around others who accept that grumpiness and cater to it. Grumpy and entitled.

I looked to Facebook chat for friendly sympathy, but all I saw were the people to whom I usually talked, the people with whom I spend all of my time. My friends, for all intents and purposes. Right away I felt an overwhelming loathing for them. The idea of talking to a single one left me squirming with boiling anger. A chat popped up on my screen and I instantly killed it, like slamming a door in my petulance. I blinked a little at the intriguing reaction. Then I called Emilie.

I had only seen Emilie a couple of times since I moved back here. There's really no excuse for it. Sure, I was busy and she was busy, but I managed to hang out with other people once or twice a week. Somehow, I just never thought about any of my old friends. Moving back felt more like starting at a new place. It just never occurred to me to resume my old life.

But on Saturday I spend hours with her and Caitie. And they were wonderful! I never knew so many comfort foods existed until the sisters heaped them in dishes for me. We talked and caught up and commiserated over our recent misfortunes. When Emilie asked me about my friends in my new ward, I answered: I hate them. She met them that night as we played croquet and ate marshmallows up in the canyon, and she says she can see why I don't like them.

I guess what I really got thinking about is the nature of hatred, and the things with which we (generalized we) fill our lives.

Hatred and love are not opposites. You've heard this a thousand time. Apathy is the opposite of any emotion. You have to care about things in order to hate them. Yet love and hate cannot occupy the same point at the same time. Something may be stippled with both, allowing for general ambivalence of feeling, but somewhere, in some microscopic place, there is a line drawn. The way red and purple can flow into each other, but at some point the color ceases to be red.

Avoiding hatred requires only a blank indifference, and if there is one thing humanity is good at, it's indifference. But soon, proximity requires attention. You cannot see someone every day without eventually taking notice. Eventually, you will form an attachment, and then an opinion. Some things you can live with an exceptionally long time before you take notice. And then you begin to hate.

There are all sorts of reasons to hate something, though I am a bad Christian for saying so. But the reason I have found most satisfying for hating something is that it is similar to the thing I love and yet not near enough; the way hate is similar to love; the way red is similar to purple. That almost-ness wears on me, a little trickle at the time until a chasm opens up and roars for its devouring. The thing I hate most is disappointment. Dissatisfaction.

I hate movies and books that are wonderful the whole way through and then end badly. I hate spending time with people who mean nothing to me. I hate the things in my life that ought to be wonderful and are only mediocre. Those things that were born to be merely adequate, remain innocuously beneath my recognition, and I continue to take no notice. They fulfill their purpose, and in that way deserve infinitesimal love.

So why do I fill my life with these things? Because they are better than the alternative, which is having nothing. At first I even believe I can remain indifferent or come to love these situations. I certainly came to love Texas. New things take time. But sometimes the time grates without me noticing. And once I notice the abrasion, I am too attached to let it go. I have come to care about it. And then I always wonder if fighting back will make it better or worse.

I sort of talked about these things with Emilie. And I talked about them with Ted when I went hiking with him yesterday and then with Tarythe tonight. They think I lack assertiveness, which magical quality serves to dissolve hatred, returning it to unimportance or transforming it into love. In essence, it means not settling for the in-between. I am certain they are right about my passivity. But I hope they also understand my fear of inconsequentiality.

I was once asked if I would rather, after I died, be hated or forgotten.

I would rather be hated.

hades and persephone

Persephone in lighted meadows bred
Fair daughter of the Harvest Queen above
Lord Hades, midst the darkness of the dead,
On seeing good Persephone he loved.
Abducted from her world of golden light,
She feared the dark and Hades love denied.
He offered her his kingdom of the night,
With fruits of love wooed her to be his bride.
Redeemed from hell, she sat in fields of bloom
And tasted fruits devoid of nectar sweet,
While Hades, hunched upon his throne of gloom,
Found darkness for the first time incomplete.
Twixt Lord and Maid, a cherished wish: ere freed
Persephone had eaten every seed.

giant

Giant, above the crownéd temples stand,
Across thy brow flies Helios’ flamed chair,
Prometheus hath laid his flown torch there.
Bowed Atlas is not mighty as thy hand,
Which reins desire and wants no reprimand.
Avoid Pandora’s pain, and patience bear.
Thy valor, champion of virtue fair,
In battles win renown of Ares’ band.
Adonis and Apollo stand apart:
No demigod Olympians need I
When Paris’ gilded apple falls to thee.
Good Giant, pardon me my mortal heart,
If it like Icarus aspires too high,
Or waits like banishéd Persephone.

jerk-sitting

The other night, I sat up to ridiculously late hours commiserating with a friend on his recent girl trouble. I was magnanimous, as even he would attest. I let it slide when he made gender stereotypes and when he said I couldn't understand the depth of his pain because I was too young. I was the best sympathetic friend anybody could ask for. And how did he repay me? By going on to delineate why he didn't want to date me. I know he doesn't want me, else he would have persistently asked me out by now; and heaven knows my heart has not wept for him; but still! still you don't tell a girl how little you get excited about her. I don't know if I can make excuses for him. Sure, maybe it was the late hour, or his melancholy disposition, or the pain of recent rejection. Or maybe, he's just an arrogant jerk, who really does think only in terms of himself. Thank goodness I have a sense of humor about these things.